poetry pains, a Dib story
by Desdemona Kakalose
Summary: when your eighth grade lannguage arts teach gets really angry with the class, who has to suffer? Dib does, thats who. what can one poem say about a person and how they've changed? oneshot, a poem centric zadr fluffish age proggresion story


**here's an idea i had not long ago, it was begging to come out. i may put it in as part of my zadr anthology if people like it.**

* * *

The classroom was full. English classroom, middle school, exactly like the one you sit in everyday, despite having twenty years leg up on your school.

A teacher, utterly bored, sat at a desk off to the whiteboard's left. She'd long given up on her dream of inspiring young writers, and her brown hair flopped onto the desk she hunched over.

"Alright people" she drawled "instead of calling roll like all the other teachers do, I'm going to ask everyone to come up front and read a poem for the class when I call their name"

The entire class moaned loudly and shot death glares of the most painful kind at their mentor.

"Oh will you be QUIET!" she yelled "if your gonna whine, then let me give you something _really_ freak about." She looked closely at each student

"You'll all read the poem based on your personal experiences for your peers. If I don't think it's embarrassing enough, you'll get an F pop quiz grade."

The children went deathly silent for fear of further punishment, and fear of revealing the poem they were assured to be confidential.

As the twitchy teacher read off the students names, inching further and further down the list, one boy in particular sunk into the cracks of his desk, vainly trying to escape his bleak fate.

His black/brown hair flopped in his eyes, a result of forgetting to comb it after his morning shower. His trademark trench coat that had passed every faculty member to clear dress code, bunched around his shoulders and arms, giving the impression of melting.

" Jane-Darby Melton" called the lady at the desk. "Get up here and read your stinking poem"

A red headed girl stepped up to the plate (in a manor of speaking) with a hurt look on her face. She sped through some thing about a girl whose parent push her too hard, until she commits suicide, receiving startled glances from her preppie friends.

" Dib Membrane, you little psychopath, move your lazy butt up and get reading"

He shuffled up to the front and looked out at all the student, wide eyes waiting for some random theory about Bigfoot using the belt sander.

_It's not _**my**_ fault the stupid myth needed to make a freakin' bird house_

"Okay guys, I guess I'll read this one" he grimaced at the words he had written.

Out in the front row sat Zita, his purple haired classmate for three years in a row, the aforementioned redhead, and a suspiciously green skinned boy with inhumanly black hair among others.

"I titled this _the villain,_ and I swear if anyone laughs, I'll rip out their innards and feed them to Bigfoot" his eyes rested on the green boy who seemed to be the only one not bothered by his slightly insane remark.

"ahem" he cleared his throat nervously, then allowed his voice to gain volume with every word he spoke:

"Perhaps you're one of those who say

Friends always know you best

But who is closer to the heart

(Much closer than the rest)

The ally standing off to the side,

Or the enemy eye to eye?

And who would know the most of you,

Who takes the time to try?

The Villain

Whose very being stakes

In your own pass or fail?

And who would _dare_ to follow you

Down the deathly trail

The Villain

Who's the one we love to hate?

Who's the one who takes,

Every moment's silent thought

With each move that he makes?

The Villain

So it must be said now,

It'll come out at any rate:

Obsession's purest form of love

The love I wish to hate."

He looked up from his notebook, dazed, at the teens who gaped in awe of his poem- the raw emotion he spoke with.

Slowly, ever so slowly, his honey-brown eyes turned to the one person who truly mattered, the raven-haired boy, with his emerald skin draining to a pale blue tinged green.

His normally hyper persona evaporated and he stared silently for a moment, as the hushed room looked on, now aware of exactly who his poem was directed at.

"Zim must go now" and with that elegant parting response, he dashed out of the room so fast, a few of the children bet on which locker he'd hit.

Dib looked on without a flinch, and then headed for his seat.

Jane-Darby turned to the desk behind her, his (conveniently), and squeezed his hand, whispering, "It'll work out Dib, you'll see"

* * *

As the bell rang, the last person to leave was the trench coat clad boy (who hadn't taken in any of the lesson). 

He grabbed his papers and binder, shoving his work inside it, and headed for the door.

"Later ms. J" he muttered to the now snoring teacher "thanks for ruining my life" he said with just a _hint_ of melodrama.

As he approached the door he barely saw someone on the other side.

_If it's Zita here to laugh at me, I'll kill her_

But it wasn't. Zim was the only person near by.

He stared at his "nemesis" for a moment, then said hesitantly "I don't know much of your filthy earth customs Dib-beast, but I think I'm... supposed to ask you on a…" he looked at anything but the boy in front of him as he searched for the word "...date"

The paranormalist tilted his head "so that means you…"

Zim nodded

"And I…"

Nod

"So we…"

Nod again

He reached a spur of the moment decision and flung his arms around the shorter boy, nearly squeezing out his squeedly-spooch in the process.

"...Dib-filth?"

"Mmm?"

"We're gonna be late for class"

* * *

**aw, sweet fluff. yes for those who hate zadr, i don't really think it makes sense either, but it's so much more entertaining than zagr. plus- it'd make a really great final episode (in my dreams)**


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